


Oblivion

by smallerontheoutside (theinvisiblequestion)



Series: #oneyearofthe100 Fic Week [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caretaking, Character Death In Dream, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3560561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the war, Marcus's nightmares plague his waking hours. One day, maybe, he'll be able to sleep again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Bastille's song of the same name which actually has little to nothing to do with this fic except that it's a song I associate heavily with this ship.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the end of the first chapter and for this fic being so angsty. I'm gonna try to fluff the fic week up. Hopefully.
> 
> EDIT: I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED IT EARLY. SORRY AND YOU'RE ALL WELCOME.
> 
> Written for #oneyearofthe100 fic week, day 2 (Male POV). In the same 'verse as Unfair (the other work in the series).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus is just glad Abby's not dead.
> 
> Written for #oneyearofthe100 fic week, day 2 (Male POV). In the same 'verse as Unfair (the other work in the series).

The only reason Marcus doesn’t go stark raving mad when Jasper leaves without freeing anyone in the room ( _One person, Jasper! Just one!_ ) is that it won’t do anyone any good. But when Octavia comes in, he struggles against the cuffs as she unlocks them, unable to get out of them fast enough.

Marcus lets Octavia handle the others and moves to the table, unbuckling the straps as fast as he can and ignoring the bloody mess of Abby’s shins and the churning fury in his stomach.

“Where’s Clarke?” she asks, because even when she’s only just escaped being tortured to death, she still thinks about her daughter.

He’s just glad Abby’s not dead. She talks briefly with Clarke before they all start getting ready to leave this godforsaken mountain, and then Marcus is so glad she’s not dead that he lets himself be the shoulder she refuses to cry on and the hand she refuses to let go of. He holds her hand all the way back to Camp Jaha. She sleeps part of the way, but never lets go of Marcus’s hand—or maybe it’s the other way around. Clarke walks with them for a bit, talking with her mother, before she goes on down the line, checking on everyone in the procession.

He’s the one who sees Clarke leave, the one who keeps Abby in the stretcher until they get into the Ark, the one who tells her that her daughter has left. He expects some sign of distress, but Abby just nods and issues orders to Jackson as if the boy doesn’t know exactly what to do already.

Aside from Abby and Raven, there aren’t any major injuries, so Marcus convinces Abby to go to bed for some real sleep. “You need to rest,” he says.

“So do you.”

He shrugs. “I’ll be okay.”

“Marcus…”

He squeezes her hand.

“Promise me you’ll get some sleep,” she says.

“I promise.”

She doesn’t believe him, but the longer she lays in bed, the heavier her eyelids become, her fingers still tangled in his. He kisses her forehead, pulls up the blanket, and leaves her to her rest. He checks on her every hour, sometimes more often, until Raven tells him off for not doing as he’s told. She’s right, of course, but he still feels the horror of that dorm, still hears the agony echoing off the walls, so he invents a lie Raven doesn’t even pretend to buy and goes for another patrol around the fence.

When he checks on Abby again, she’s awake and she can see the weariness in his face. She says nothing about it, just tries to get out of bed by herself. Her legs are still weak, though, and she has to lean on Marcus.

“Abby, you don’t have to—“

“Who did you send after Clarke?”

Marcus frowns.

Abby’s eyes are full of fire. “Tell me you sent someone.”

“She’ll come home when she’s ready,” is all he says.

“She shouldn’t be out there alone.” Abby shuffles angrily toward the door, leaning on the walls for support. Marcus lets her struggle a bit and then he wraps her in his arms so she can cry out her anger into his shirt.

“It’s okay,” he tells her when she scrubs at her face with a sleeve. “Clarke will—“

“Thank you,” she says stiffly. She pushes him away and resumes her slow hobble, wincing with every step. Marcus touches her elbow.”Let me help,” he says, and offers her his arm.

She takes it and makes her slow way toward the med bay. She makes it about halfway before she starts to struggle in earnest. Marcus stoops to carry her, and when she protests he says firmly, “Let me help.”

She’s lighter than she has any right to be, and he doesn’t think it’s the missing bone marrow. He shuffles sideways through the bay door so her bandaged legs are clear of the walls, and he sets her down on one of the cots. When he stands up, he thinks maybe he ought to leave the carrying of wounded loves across thresholds to younger men. It’s Abby’s turn to be persistent now. “Go rest,” she tells him in her _don’t fuck with me_ voice.

“Is that an order, Chancellor?”

“Should it be?”

Marcus points a finger at Jackson on his way out. “Don’t let her overdo herself.”

Jackson’s expression is serious, except for the playful knowing in his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

He sleeps little and badly, and in his dreams it is his hand that draws marrow from the bones of the dead and the living. Their constant screams are a background to the soft sounds of his own voice, singing an old lullaby taught him by his mother, a gentle song about a journey into sleep, or into death.

It is Tor Lemkin on the table beneath his hands, and the other hundreds of the Culling, and when the dead have been taken away, it is Abby he prepares for sacrifice. She screams the loudest, and in the omniscience of dreams he knows it is because Clarke has already gone on her way. As his song ends, she begins to cough and cry. He puts a hand on her face and a hand at her heart, between the second and third ribs, and murmurs _let me help_ in the moment before he wakes up sweating and shaking.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus doesn't want to talk about it.
> 
> (For #oneyearofthe100 Fic Week, day 5: Quote in a New Context.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The dead are gone; the living are hungry."

Marcus sleeps as little and as infrequently as he can get away with. He keeps himself busy so that his dreams can’t haunt his waking hours. His victims’ faces change from night to night, but it’s always the same dream. He sings the same sickeningly sweet lullaby at the same bloody medical table; it always ends with Abby on his table, and he always wakes up feeling tainted and  _wrong_.

It’s Raven who notices first. She has a rare attention to detail—it’s part of what makes her such a good mechanic—and when she confronts him, her tone makes it clear that she didn’t just figure it out. “You should talk to someone, Kane.”

“It’s nothing.”

Raven snorts, looking up from the pressure regulator she’s tinkering with. “It’s obviously not nothing, because it’s keeping you up at night.”

“It’s just a nightmare.”

The young mechanic sets her soldering iron down and leans on the table. “We all have nightmares, Kane. What’s yours?”

“It’s nothing important. Just a bad dream.”

“You should talk to someone about it,” she says. “I’m not one for talking out my feelings, but... it helps. A little.”

Marcus gives her a sad smile, and she goes back to her work.

“The dead are gone,” she says, like she knows exactly what he dreams about. “The living are hungry,” she adds, and holds up the modified pressure regulator. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with a hydroponics system.”

* * *

He takes the second watch that night, and sits at his post scanning the dark, thick line of the forest and the stars glittering in the sky. This is the worst part of the day, because there’s nothing to _do_ ; awake or asleep, his nightmare plagues him.

“Marcus Kane, when was the last time you slept?”

It’s Abby. She doesn’t sound pleased, and when she steps in front of him, she doesn’t _look_ pleased, either.

He shrugs. “Last time I was too tired to stay awake.”

She huffs. “Marcus.”

He nods to the ground next to him. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“You’re not even supposed to be on duty.”

“Abby, please,” he says tiredly. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not the only one who has nightmares, you know. We all have them.”

Marcus chuckles. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” He shakes his head. “I still don’t want to talk about it.”

Abby sits next to him. “Let me help. Please.”

She can’t possibly know she’s echoing the worst part of his nightmares, but the sudden tension that grips him head to toe is involuntary. “Drop it. Please.”

She takes his hand and holds it silently. Her thumb drifts back and forth across the back of his hand, a mirror of their return from Mt. Weather. She sits with him until the end of his watch, and when he gets up, she urges him to get some sleep.

“I’ll try,” he says.

This time, it is only Abby on his table, and all he hears are the echoes of her screams through the mountain. He sings his awful lullaby, and at the end, she puts her hand over his on her chest and it is her voice that whispers _let me help_.

His face is wet and his chest is heaving when he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted this to be a fluffy Kabby fic, but it's quickly becoming evident that I am incapable of writing Kabby fluff. So have some Kabby angst, and I _swear_ it's going to get better.


	3. Chapter 3

Abby appears in his doorway, her face lined with concern. "I heard you talking in your sleep," she tells him.

He throws off his blanket and picks up his boots. "It's just a bad dream," he says, even though he feels more tired than he did when he went to bed.

"It's only going to get worse if you ignore it."

"I don't want to talk about it." He pulls one boot on and yanks on the laces.

"Marcus. I can't help if I don't know what's going on."

"I said I don't want to talk about it." He tugs his other boot on and ties his laces.

Abby stands in his way when he tries to walk out the door, arms crossed and stance wide. "You're not going back to work," she insists. "Doctor's orders."

He steps in front of her, and even though he's taller, she's the one who looks intimidating. He shakes his head. "Please don't do this."

"You can't keep this up. You'll run yourself into the ground, and we need you." She shifts, tightening her arms around herself. "I need you."

Marcus sighs. "It's a nightmare; it's bad from start to finish. People die. I don't want to talk about it."

"I want to help. Please, let me help."

There it is again, that haunting echo. "Abby..." He sits on his bed and stares at his fingers, his nightmare playing on the floor and echoing from the walls. He sees her face, all their faces, and hears their agony and it's a full minute before he realizes he's started humming the lullaby under his breath. He is appalled that he would do something like that, but he hasn't hardly slept in a week, and sleep deprivation does terrible things.

Abby crouches in front of him and takes his hands in her own. "Marcus?"

"I'm sorry," he tells her, because he can't talk about the dream, but he can talk about reality. His fingers wrap around hers. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. Abby, I almost had you executed. I had you shock lashed in front of everyone. And the Culling—"

"Marcus, stop. We've all done what we thought was necessary to survive."

He shakes his head. "That doesn't make it right."

Abby sits next to him. "No, it doesn't. It makes it done and over. We can't change it now."

"I know. Doesn't make it any better."

"It's not supposed to, but you have to move past it one way or another."

Marcus shakes his head. "They had you on that table, and all I could think about was telling Byrne—"

Abby stands up, and the abruptness of her movement cuts off the rest of his sentence. She pulls up her shirt and shows him the skin of her back. "Do you see it?" she asks.

He doesn't see anything, until she shifts and the light catches on the strange rough patch of skin at her spine. He reaches out and touches it. "I did that?"

She drops her shirt and turns to him. "Yeah." She pulls up the leg of her jeans next. "You see that?" she asks, pointing to the bruise that surrounds a scabbed-over hole in her skin. It's going to scar, along with all the other wounds they inflicted on her.

He nods.

"You didn't do that. The people who did that are dead, all of them." Abby sits next to him again, tugging the hem of her jeans back down. "Don't blame yourself for anything more than you have to," she says. "You used to know that, once."

She's right, but that was before he killed three hundred people, before his mother died in his arms, before he watched strangers torture one of the only good things left to him. "Yes, and it got how many people killed?"

When Abby gets up, her shoulders are tense, and she gives him a steel-hardened look. "You made mistakes. People died. It's terrible. And you need to get over it." She leaves him alone in his room, and when he lays back on his bed, his mind races in circles until he falls asleep again, too exhausted to stay awake.

His table is empty this time, but all around him are his victims, the ones who have been on the table over and over for days. Then he's looking up at them all, and it's his body bound to the table. He's watching from elsewhere, and from his own eyes; he screams when the torture begins. At the end, he feels a hand on his forehead and a hand on his chest, feather-light, and a voice he can't identify or triangulate says—

"Kane!"

He jerks upright, breathing heavily. He looks at the young girl standing next to his bed. "Raven?"

"Yeah. You've been screaming bloody murder for like five minutes."

He rubs his eyes. "What time is it?"

She shrugs. "After breakfast. Ten, maybe."

He actually slept, then. Exhaustion'll do that, he supposes. "Oh. Thanks, uh, I guess."

"Abby would have come to wake you up except she's busy." Raven draws quotes in the air when she says _busy_ , and then adds, "I don't know what her deal is."

"Thank you, Raven."

Raven turns and walks out, her ponytail swinging with every step. Marcus puts his shoes on and goes to find some work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

It's weeks before the nightmares leave him mostly alone, and longer before Abby will talk to him about anything that isn't strictly business. He works a lot, takes as many guard shifts as he can get away with, and generally keeps busy.

When she does finally talk to him, all she asks is, "How are you?"

"Better," he says. "Sleeping."

She nods, and it's like someone has shattered whatever airlock she's been keeping herself in. She doesn't go out of her way to avoid him, and they have casual conversations once in a while, after settling matters of business. They share a table at meals, on the rare occasions that Abby leaves Medical to eat, although those occasions get progressively more common. Sometimes he finds her half-asleep at her desk and has to talk her into going to bed. Other times she finds him working too hard and has to talk him into taking a break.

Three months to the day after they came back from the mountain, Marcus finds Abby with her head down on her desk. He thinks she's asleep, but then he hears the jerky, stuttered pattern of her breathing and knows she's not. He crouches next to her desk and puts a hand on her back. "Abby?"

She lifts her head, and behind her hair her eyes are red-rimmed and her face is wet. She takes a deep breath and sits all the way up, wiping at her face with her sleeve. "What do you need?"

His hand drops to her hip when she sits up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You've been crying. It's not nothing."

"It is now." She squeezes his arm. "Thanks, though."

He stands and offers her his hand. "It's late."

"Yeah." She takes his hand and stands up, and she has to really pull on his arm to get up. Her joints crack when she stands, and she pulls a face. "God, I feel old."

Marcus smiles at her and moves a few stray bits of hair out of her face. "Abby Griffin, you're as young as the dawn."

He walks her to her room, and she smiles and kisses his cheek when he stops outside her door. "Thanks," she says. "I'm not that young, but thanks."

"Not my best line," he says sheepishly.

She gives him an unreadable look, and then she plants a kiss square on his mouth, and that's the end of all things, because she's kissing him and he's kissing her and he can't stop and at some point someone closes her door, and they slowly misplace every single thing they're wearing.

They're not young any more, but it's a hard burn, and when he remembers where he put his pants, they're snugged up together under her blankets, and he's falling asleep watching her falling asleep. She touches his face, all the little scrapes and scars, and her thumb across his lips would be irresistibly intoxicating if he was a younger man. "Maybe you're right," he mumbles, and falls asleep tangled up with her.

She wakes him in the middle of the night when he starts to toss and turn, and the nightmares are still terrible when they come, but she kisses him sweetly and he thinks one day he might be able to move beyond the things he's done and dissolve every night into the sweet oblivion of dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is a piece of trash. i am a piece of trash. i don't care. i want them to always be happy. always. i will fight u.


End file.
